


[redacted]

by wildenessat221b



Series: flammam gladii hinc [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, M/M, Pre-Canon, crowley made the stars and healed, pre-Eden, pre-everything actually, the origin of the flaming sword and why crowley was so obsessed with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 10:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: In the beginning, the angels were like children, and like children, they played.Nobody told them that games have consequences, and the archangel [redacted] made up the best games.





	[redacted]

In the beginning, there was no work to be done, because work hadn’t been invented yet. All that was were the angels. They had conifer-soft skin that tended to glimmer when it caught the light, which was always because darkness hadn’t been invented yet either. Their footsteps were whisper-soft and their movements furtive as a breeze and their laughs had the timbre of what sunbeams reflecting off the water would sound like if they were music.

In the beginning, there was no work to be done, so the angels played like the children that in a very real sense, they were.

//

The archangel [redacted] commanded attention in almost everything they did. They had a way of holding their chin, tilting it toward the sky, where She resided, which seemed to suggest that they were a little closer to communion with Her than the others. They held themselves with an elegance and grace that couldn’t have _not_ permeated below the skin. They had eyes like splashes of liquid gold and spider’s silk hair the colour of the flaming sword that they had been given, perhaps as a mark pre-emptive to honour – She was omniscient after all. They were softly spoken and so, so _kind._

The archangel [redacted] had three favourite games, and one favourite angel to play them with.

The rules of the first game were very simple. The archangel [redacted] and their favourite angel wandered around the Space (which didn’t have a name yet, because there was no alternative) and if they saw anything that was broken, they fixed it. This game was called ‘healing.’

The rules of the second game were also very simple. The archangel [redacted] would summon a tiny column of fire and shape it between their fingertips into a little ball that matched their eyes, then hang it between the space where they knelt and where their favourite angel knelt. This game was called ‘building.’

The rules of the third game were also very simple. The archangel [redacted] and their favourite angel would stretch out on the grass and gaze up at the swirling sky. The archangel [redacted] would raise their elegant fingers and paint invisible patterns, and they would think about the things that didn’t make sense. This game was called ‘questioning.’

The principality Aziraphale, who was the archangel [redacted]’s favourite angel, wasn’t very good at the third game.

//

“Do you not wonder sometimes?”

“Wonder what?”

“Wonder… well… anything…”

“Elaborate, please.”

“I don’t know. Why we’re here, what Her plan is, why the grass is green.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“How do you pass the time?”

“Well… with you. Obviously.”

“What about when you’re not with me?”

“I wait until I am.”

“And what do you think about?”

“Being with you.”

“Every moment? Your mind never even wanders to-“

“All the time.”

“So let me get this straight. You think about me all the time… and your mind _lets you_?”

The archangel [redacted] thought about a world where their mind lets them be with Aziraphale all the time, and considered the possibility that they were made with some sort of design flaw.

//

And in a bright moment, still as of yet indistinguishable from the rest, She invented work and one by one, the archangel [redacted]’s games became roles.

//

The angels were children, and children get into all sorts of scrapes and accidents. It was always the archangel [redacted] that patched them up, with a feather-light brush of their skin, or an imparting of warmth or a coaxing word reminding that all would soon be well.

The archangel [redacted] became a healer.

//

When She invented darkness, She also invented dissatisfaction. She regretted the formlessness and the gloom. She wanted it fixed. She remembered what the archangel [redacted] could do with fire. She smiled.

The archangel [redacted] became a builder.

//

The archangel [redacted] healed the sick and built the stars and it was mostly good.

//

Aziraphale loved almost everything – it rather came with his make-up. He loved basking in the sunlight and running his fingers through the soft, bubbling waters of the stream. He loved hearing the other angels laugh and watching them carve out tailored existences for themselves. If he loved one of them a little more than the others then that was nobody’s business but his own.

Aziraphale loved _almost_ everything.

Aziraphale didn’t love the lines of discomfort that sometimes settled in the middle of the archangel [redacted]’s forehead, or the doubt that sometimes clouded their gold-leaf eyes. He didn’t love the way they’d stop sometimes, mid-way through an action, and tilt their head towards the sky as creases gathered where their outermost eyelashes met. He didn’t love when they’d open their mouth as if to say something, then shut it almost guiltily.

He didn’t love the chalky, burgundy feeling that settled itself in its stomach when he saw these things happen.

When She decided to put a name to it, it would be fear.

//

The archangel [redacted] found their mind wandering more than it had. Before, when they were playing, the things that needed fixing were just _things,_ and the fire balls they invented were just _toys,_ that existed in the same innocuous way that they did. But once they were at work, the archangel [redacted] began to find it difficult to see them as anything other than symbols.

Why, they wondered, were there things that needed healing in a supposed paradise?

Why, they wondered, was it necessary to have stars to guide the way through the darkness if their existence was protected and safe?

There were whispers, among the disembodied voices that rode the wind – not yet a movement, not yet anything but abstract suggestions of disorder - that She was working on a new project – a new set of toys to play with. They would have Free Will, although not all that free, because She would set them traps along the way. She would test them, She would punish them.

Why, they wondered, would She spend so much effort creating something only to watch them suffer?

//

“I don’t think I like this game as much as I used to, [redacted.]”

“It’s not a game anymore, Aziraphale.”

“Well, what is it then?”

The archangel [redacted] was silent.

//

Rebellion.

It was rebellion.

//

The archangel [redacted] became a rebel.

//

Aziraphale spoke in shades of burgundy. The words stained his lips like chalk.

“Be careful, my dear. Please, be so, so careful.”

“What do I have to be afraid of, Aziraphale? She isn’t dangerous. She loves us. Loves me.”

“Yes, but [redacted]-“

“What?”

“… Nothing. Nothing at all.”

And it was then that the screams began and war broke out.

//

there was nothing like it at all. the feeling of readiness and of being one in a million on the right side, standing beside the angel you love and ready to fight, ready to square your shoulders against wrong and raise the flaming sword the colour of your hair above your head.

one moment you have righteousness burning through your golden blood, and you are turning to face the angel that you love so dearly and you are smiling. and then you realise that they aren’t smiling back, and you realise that they are, in fact, looking at you in abject horror.

and then you realise that your wings are on fire and you have made a terrible mistake. 

you drop your flaming sword and then you are falling and when you stop falling, you are no longer the archangel [redacted]. in fact, you have no idea who you are.

//

_you can see yourself in your mind’s eye and you don’t recognise yourself. your eyes aren’t golden anymore, they’re sulfur-stained yellow. your hair has an artificial sheen and your bones are giving off the impression that they don’t quite fit beneath the skin they’ve been assigned._

_you are sprawled on the floor and you are sobbing and you aren’t yet angry because you are too busy being afraid._

_there is someone edging towards you in the darkness, calling out the name that you lost custody of. he is carrying the sword that you dropped and you are scrabbling towards the light, and perhaps you shall continue to until the end of your days._

_his hands are warm on your back, but his tears are warmer on your cheek._

_“oh darling. oh darling, I warned you that She… that She…”_

_he takes in a shuddering breath as he runs his hand over your wing, and comes away with a fistful of blackened, loose feathers._

_“She can… She can choke on them,” he spits._

_and that simply won’t do._

_“no, Aziraphale, don’t… not on my behalf, don’t fall because of me, stay quiet.”_

_“but [redacted]…”_

_the name that didn’t belong to them anymore cracked down the middle and the former archangel [redacted] made their decision._

_paradoxically, their first action as a demon was entirely unselfish._

_“goodbye, angel.”_

//

Aziraphale had the funny feeling that he’d forgotten something very important.

Perhaps it was to do with the flaming sword he seemed to have picked up somewhere.

It wouldn’t do him any good, after all.

The war was over.

//

Perhaps he’d take it with him to Eden.

//

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! Thank you ever so much for reading.  
> There's maybe possibly a sequel to this in the works... please do let me know if you're interested in such a thing. Please drop a comment if you have a moment... they make my little heart sing.  
> Thanks again!


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